At the end of the first semester of my third year in college, the draft board discovered that I had not been attending classes. Greetings, the first line of the draft notice read. I was ordered to appear for a physical exam to ensure my eligibility for military service.

What a load of crap! I had just been offered a promotion at work. Well, there was only one thing to do if I was going to avoid the draft. I needed to join the army. (Wait a minute! Who came up with that? Another expression of Guidance, my so called Higher Self?)

That very day, I walked into the army recruiting office and asked about joining up. The sergeant, a tall Adonis in uniform, explained to me that there were a number of excellent jobs and outstanding opportunities within the army and that if I was qualified I could select a position for which I would be trained and eventually serve. The easiest positions to get were the ones with the most vacancies, the ones the army needed the most, e.g., medics and infantrymen—who would most certainly be sent immediately to Vietnam.

An incredible calmness came over me as I picked up one of the small booklets from the display rack. On the back cover in bold, blue letters, centered below an official-looking golden insignia were the words Army Intelligence. Below these words, it simply said in small-font, black type, for those who are qualified. Without looking at the pages in the booklet, I showed the back cover to the recruiting sergeant and asked, What about this? The sergeant replied by asking me how old I was, had I been to college, and had I ever been in trouble with the law. I explained that I had two years of college and had never been arrested. He told me that, due to army regulations, he couldn’t interview me for a position with Army Intelligence but that he could set up an appointment for me if I was interested.

Looking the poster-boy recruiting sergeant straight in the eye and pointing to the back cover of the booklet, I spoke softly, as if I were repeating words being whispered somehow directly into my mind about a course of action perhaps charted long ago, This is what I am here for. And with that one utterance, my childhood was over, a youth that had been filled with normal experiences, psychic and spiritual realities I did not yet appreciate.

I joined the U.S. Army on the delayed-entry program, to delay my army training cycle so that I would be twenty-one years old when I graduated from Advanced Individual Training, or AIT. The minimum age requirement for training to become a Counterintelligence Special Agent was twenty-one.

Before I left for basic training in February 1968, I had what was probably my first adult conversation with my mother. Sitting at the round, oak table in the kitchen, I told Mom that I was having second thoughts about joining the army because I didn’t think I could actually shoot anyone. Without bringing up moral issues of killing, Mom told me that in life I would be presented with many circumstances that would temper my soul and that if shooting someone was not in my best interests such a circumstance would not emerge. It never did. Oh . . . she also reminded me once again that I would always be taken care of.

On a different note, the last thing the recruiting sergeant said to me before I left for basic training was helpful to me over the next two months and, as it turned out, over the rest of my entire military career. This veteran sergeant told me that basic training was all about learning what it was like to be a soldier and that I would never forget the experience. These were important words for me before I entered the elite intelligence community. Whatever I did in the intelligence field, it was important to remember the intensity, the devotion of the combat soldier. Perhaps this well-seasoned recruiting sergeant was divinely guided to touch base with me in this way just at this moment in my life.

On February 14, 1968, I became Private Frederick H. Atwater and I raised my right hand in an oath of allegiance to America and a promise to obey the orders of my military superiors. I boarded a bus in downtown Los Angeles bound for Fort Ord, California— and the next twenty years of my life.

Basic Training imageFor me, the most meaningful part of the whole basic training experience actually happened after I graduated. Shortly before graduation, I was hospitalized with a URI, the ERMA (Easily Remembered Military Acronym) for an upper respiratory infection, otherwise known as pneumonia (a rather pejorative medical expression the army didn’t like to use). Because of this, I was unable to proceed on my travel orders to AIT at Fort Holabird, Maryland, the army’s intelligence training center.

I was placed in what was known as holdover status for several weeks. During this time, I was an asset of the same training company— B Company, First Battalion, First Brigade—that had been the home of my fellow basic trainees. Except for me, all of my compatriots had moved on to their respective AIT schools.

This proved to be a beneficial experience, which I now see as having been guided. A new group of recruits arrived in the company and I became an assistant to the drill instructor. I was no longer addressed like the other recruits as trainee but as “Private Atwater." The new recruits looked to me for assistance and some assurance that they would survive basic training. I showed them how to roll their socks, set up their footlockers, and make their beds compliant with the drill sergeant’s standards (so tight that a quarter would bounce off the wool blanket).

As the days of my holdover status at Fort Ord turned into weeks, I occasionally visited with the clerks, soldiers like myself, who worked in the orderly room and asked if there was any word on my reassignment orders. There never was. I eventually requested to speak to the first sergeant, a pock-faced Vietnam veteran with a know-it-all attitude when it came to privates. I asked him what had been done to find out about my orders. He said, without the slightest lilt in his voice, Nothing, nothing at all. He went on to tell me that his office’s only responsibility was the earlier paperwork associated with my being in the hospital. I asked him if there was anything I could do to find out about my orders. He told me the only thing I was supposed to do was to wait . . . to wait for the army. Although he didn’t laugh out loud, I suspect that I was the brunt of his NCO-Club jokes over a beer or two later that evening.

When the first sergeant dismissed me, I realized that my questioning the first sergeant had been prompted by divine Guidance. Being who he was, the first sergeant didn't recognize this and thought he was just talking to Private Atwater. Respecting his perspective, I could see he was right. There was little that Private Atwater could do in this situation. But deep inside, beyond the limitations of my lowly military rank, I knew there was much that could be done.

One Thursday morning, I was instructed to escort a newly assigned recruit to an office in another area of Fort Ord for a scheduled appointment of some kind. I was to wait for the recruit and escort him back to the company area when he was through. When I was assigned this duty, I remembered that before I left home for basic training, the army intelligence people in Los Angeles gave me their office telephone number to call should I have any questions. So while the recruit was busy with his appointment, I found a payphone and called that number. I explained that I had been in the hospital when my class graduated from basic training and that my assignment orders to Fort Holabird had been canceled or returned, as the clerk in the orderly room had said.

The army intelligence people seemed to feel that my orders shouldn’t have been canceled and that the basic training company should have sent me on my way when I got out of the hospital. They gave me a telephone number in the Pentagon and told me to ask for the sergeant major who was in charge of assignments for all enlisted personnel in Army Intelligence. I was to explain what had happened and ask what I should do.

The minute I hung up the phone, I placed a call to the Pentagon number and asked to speak to the sergeant major. Very politely, knowing that he probably didn’t get many calls from privates, I introduced myself as Private Atwater calling from Fort Ord, California. The sergeant major replied, "Yes, Private Atwater, what can I do for you?"

A bit startled by the seemingly warm response, I described my situation and told him that the Los Angeles office had suggested that I call. He said, You did the right thing, Private. He asked me to confirm that I had completed basic training and I assured him that I had, reiterating that my present job was an assistant drill instructor. He then asked me to spell my name for him and tell him my service number. I complied. He put me on hold for three or four minutes, then came back on the line.

I have your file here, Private Atwater, he said. We’d better get you on to Fort Holabird as soon as possible. He told me to return to my company as instructed; he would see what he could do from his end. He ended by saying, Thank you for calling me, Private Atwater.

Well, that put a smile on my face. I found the recruit I had been escorting and marched him back to the company area. By the time we got back to the company, the morning was gone. Drill sergeants in their starched fatigues were outside the mess hall, harassing the usual line of haggard and hungry trainees before lunch. I delivered the recruit to his platoon and went into the mess hall to get some chow.

I had just finished eating when the company clerk came through the door and said loudly, Private Atwater, the company commander wants to see you right now! I asked if he knew why and he said, You know why. Just get into the orderly room right now. Everybody around me turned and gave me one of those you're-in-trouble-now kind of looks. Confident that Guidance had been working in my favor, I headed for the commander's office.

As I walked into the orderly room, the nervous clerks looked up from their desks. Their eyes followed me as I approached the first sergeant. The first sergeant's eyes met mine and before I could utter an official-sounding Reporting as ordered, First Sergeant, he told me to take a seat and that the company commander would see me in a minute.

Just as I sat down, the commander came out of his office and headed directly for the first sergeant's desk. Before the captain could speak, the first sergeant gestured toward me and I stood to attention just as the captain's eyes met mine. Oh, Private Atwater, come into my office, he said as he executed a military about-face and walked quickly back through his door and stepped behind his desk. Remembering my best military etiquette, I glanced at the first sergeant and marched courteously into the captain's office.

Just as he sat in his chair and glanced up at me, I stood at attention in front of his desk, saluted, and said, Private Atwater reporting, Sir. He returned the salute, ordered me to stand at ease, and said (I think in one big breath), Atwater, I just got a call from battalion headquarters. They said someone in the Pentagon wants you on an airplane to Fort Holabird tomorrow. You will be on that plane, Atwater. It is my job to see that happens. Pack your things and the first sergeant will drive you to the airport at 0530 hours tomorrow morning. Do you understand, Private?

Yes, Sir.

Dismissed, he barked. I came to attention, saluted, executed an about-face, and marched out of his office. With each step I knew that I was not alone in moving into the next adventure of life. As my mom had said, I would always be taken care of. There was something more to all this than was apparent to my so-called five senses at the time. Bob Monroe would ask me years later, Surely, you have a sense of self that is greater than your physical body?

Becoming a Special Agent

I flew into Washington National Airport and checked with the military liaison there about getting to Fort Holabird. As it turned out, there was an army shuttle bus that went directly from the airport to the base. I arrived at my new post late on Friday afternoon.

The staff was very well organized, and I was assigned a barracks based on a class cycle. Because this was 1968 in the midst of the Vietnam War, the intelligence school ran classes through as fast as they could, and I joined a class group starting the following Monday.

Many, if not all, experiences at Fort Holabird must have been the result of divine Guidance. Such experiences were to have a profound effect on my course in life. I was, unknowingly, being equipped to deal with future situations in life from a perspective of confidence and knowledge.

The duties of the special agent included a wide range of counterintelligence activities, including the conduct of personnel background investigations, security inspections and surveys, counterespionage and counter-sabotage investigations and activities— and, in Vietnam, battlefield counterintelligence measures.

The intelligence school had three months to prepare us for entry into this elite world of intelligence operatives. I thought the school did a great job, considering the demands of Vietnam for qualified soldiers of all specialties. I especially appreciated the methods used to teach us how to interview character references for those requiring background checks for security clearances. I never guessed, though, that these techniques would become useful years in the future when I would be working with remote viewers at Fort Meade, and later with out-of-body voyagers in the lab at The Monroe Institute.

One particular event, in retrospect, revealed that I was indeed on the right course, following Guidance. We were about two weeks from graduation and we had begun to review what we had learned. We now had an overall picture in our minds of the scope and duties of the counterintelligence special agent of the late 1960s, which included physical security, document security, and personnel security. From this perspective, I stood up in class one day and asked about the television pictures taken from space of the surface of the moon, pictures that I had seen on the nightly news broadcast.

Specifically, I asked if such cameras were in Earth orbit taking pictures of the surface of the Earth, and if they were, what were we as counterintelligence specialists to do to guard against hostile exploitation of such pictures? It seemed obvious to me that information from such pictures would be of immense intelligence value, and nothing had been said in class so far about this threat.

A hush filled the classroom as I finished my question. The instructor that day, a young captain, looked me square in the eyes and said in a stern voice, “Private Atwater, sit down. Do not discuss or ask such questions ever again. The purpose of this class is to review the material covered in this course. Do you understand?” “Yes, Sir,” I answered, and sat down.

When the class was dismissed, the instructor told me to remain in the classroom for a few minutes. I thought that I was in trouble for insubordination because I had asked a question not covered in his lesson plan. Once he and I were alone in the classroom, he told me that the subject I had asked about was a form of special intelligence so highly classified that it was actually illegal to discuss it in the school building. I was told that since I didn’t have the necessary security clearances or an appropriate need to know, I should avoid discussing the subject.

I asked when such discussions might be appropriate, and he told me that conceivably during my career as a special agent I would get an assignment where I would be involved with this kind of work. He reminded me not to discuss “the subject” again and dismissed me. But this same inquisitive nature concerning extraordinary intelligence-collection methods would lead me later in life into the world of military remote viewing.

Special Agent Operations

The counterintelligence side of technical surveillance involves postulating how a hostile intelligence service would bug or wiretap or photograph classified discussions or material. Much of the work has to do with physically searching, either by visual or instrumented inspection. However, the agents' concepts of where to search and what to look for depend on their experience, their knowledge of the enemy’s capabilities, and a great deal of intuitive insight.

I found that intuitive insight was my forte. My out-of-body experiences as a young child and remote viewing or intuitive insights as a teenager taught me to trust other ways of knowing. When searching a building for a bugging device, I simply expanded my awareness to include the entirety of the structure and look for—remote view(?)—such a device within my very self or the awareness of myself as the structure. I would then focus the technical resources at my disposal toward suspicious areas. If I was concerned about photographic penetration of an office area, I would simply visualize angles that extended beyond the confines of target area. (Good architects can do something similar by imagining a structure from many angles, both inside and out.)

This is not as strange or difficult as it may seem. For example, when you are walking you are aware of the sense of you as being your physical body. When you get into a car to drive, your awareness automatically expands until what you think of as you extends from bumper to bumper. You become aware, to some extent, of this new you quite naturally. As you move down the street with some speed, you become aware of a zone beyond the limits of the front bumper of the car, a sort of an out-of-car experience. Whether around a car or a building (or ostensibly the universe) this expanded awareness of you provides cognitive access to data within the specified environs. I define this investigative form of intuitive insight, therefore, as a simple act of self-examination. All one has to do is expand one’s awareness beyond the confines of the physical body and extend it throughout the structure under inspection.

I have also used this concept of intuitive insight as a special agent working outside the world of technical intelligence. During interviews and interrogations, I expanded my awareness to include the persona of the other individual. This simple act of intimacy makes deception very difficult because an awareness of my own intuitive insight reveals the thoughts and feelings within the unity. Presumably, such unity always exists. This is what we do when we make love to one another.

The words “expand awareness” are semantically burdensome here. It is less a matter of a verb like “expand” than akin to purposefully—consciously—taking up a perspective encompassing a greater wholeness. Once this viewpoint is realized (real-ized, as in made real through personal experience), knowledge of this greater wholeness becomes available. I guess some who knew me back then thought my ideas were weird, but thinking back I guess I was a very special agent. I had a sense of myself, a spiritual identity, that was greater than my physical body.

Skip in uniformWhen I was reassigned to Fort Huachuca, I came off civilian clothes status and wore a regular military uniform for the first time since language school in 1970. Special Agent Atwater became Staff Sergeant Atwater. The assignment turned out to be a pivotal point in my military career and my life. It was as though I was somehow destined or guided to this a long time before I consciously realized what was happening.

The assignment got started with the inevitable what-should-we-do- with-the-new-guy interview that I had with a short, balding man wearing glasses, who was named Mr. Spaeth. Mr. Spaeth was an experienced intelligence operative from the days of the Cuban missile crisis who, after military retirement, became a civilian instructor at the Army Intelligence School. He had been around a while and had worked his way up to a supervisory position in the section dedicated to teaching document control and accountability and personnel security investigations. I was sent to talk to him about working in his section.

When I sat down to talk to him, he had my 201 File in front of him on a desk in a very small office. He looked up at me over his glasses and asked, What are you doing here, Sergeant Atwater? He looked back down at my file and casually flipped through several pages as I began to think about my answer.

Quite unexpectedly, an answer to his question emerged from deep within me. I have two college degrees. I have taught college classes. I have had eight years of experience conducting counterintelligence security inspections and surveys, including technical surveillance types, and I have worked on an inspector general team doing the same. I know all the army and Department of Defense security regulations and can quote from them verbatim. In your language, Mr. Spaeth, my shit doesn’t stink. I am here to teach document control and accountability for you.

This spontaneous utterance from within had been seemingly pent-up for some time waiting for this particular moment. I began to think about the possible consequences of what I had said and what Mr. Spaeth might do.

Without the slightest hesitation, gasp, glance, or gesture, he closed my 201 File, looked over his glasses at me again, and said, Report to Lieutenant Ray in Room 201 down the hall. Tell him you’re his new document control and accountability instructor. Just then, the phone rang and Mr. Spaeth turned away from me and began to talk. Feeling uncomfortable in the room while he was on the phone, I got up and left. Over the next two years, I got to know Mr. Spaeth and we became great friends. As it turns out, he might have been one of my instructors back at Fort Holabird.

Before I met Lieutenant Ray, I was introduced to the Section Chief, Captain Allard. I sized up Allard as a non career officer. I told him that I had spoken to Mr. Spaeth and had been instructed to inform a Lieutenant Ray that I would be teaching document control and accountability. Fine, Allard said as he began to introduce me to the other NCOs in the section.

Allard left us to chat. I asked about this Lieutenant Ray who I was supposed to meet. I was concerned about working for a lieutenant who had been in the army all day long whereas I had several years of experience as a counterintelligence special agent and was up for promotion to sergeant first class, a senior NCO. All of my fellow NCOs smiled and assured me that everything would be all right. They said that Lieutenant Ray had served previously as special agent for a number of years and then gone to Officer Candidate School (OCS) to get his commission. This was his first assignment since OCS and they were all impressed with his professionalism. They showed me to an office cubicle that was to be mine and told me to go home for the day. They said that I should come back around 0900 the next day so I could meet with Lieutenant Ray, who would be busy teaching classes until then.

The next day, I returned to the office and found Lieutenant Ray in the cubicle next to mine. He looked very distinguished sitting there smoking a pipe and looking through some documents on his desk. Before I could say anything, he stood up, stuck out his hand, gesturing for a handshake, and said, Sergeant Atwater, I’m Lieutenant Ray. I’ve been looking over your personnel file and have been wondering what you’re doing here. You have a fine military record, a good deal of experience as a special agent, and two college degrees. Why are you here? Why haven’t you gone to OCS?

Well, Sir, I said. I wanted to teach, to share what I have experienced with those just entering the field.

All right. But you really should go to OCS. We’ll talk about it later. He excused himself and went off to teach another class.

I was impressed. Ray spoke his mind, didn’t dilly-dally around with any small talk, and took his military duty seriously. He was my kind of guy, and I hoped I would do well working for him. I didn’t know then that we would become life-long friends and he would play a major role in my future in remote viewing.

As a next step, I attended a how-to-be-a-teacher course, where I learned to develop and write lesson plans, to use multimedia training aids, and to give presentations, all of which has paid off in my present position some thirty years hence. As soon as I was qualified as a military instructor, I began to teach document control and accountability classes, trading off with Lieutenant Ray.

As time passed, we became friends within the limitations of the military fraternization rules. Nearly every day, at least three or four times a week, whenever I saw Lieutenant Ray, he would say, Sergeant Atwater, what are you doing here? I thought I told you to go to OCS. I would courteously reply, Sir, I haven’t gone yet. I’m still teaching classes for you.

About the same time that Lieutenant Ray got promoted and started calling himself First Lieutenant Ray, I met Staff Sergeant Cowart, who had also been assigned as an instructor to our section. We had kids of similar ages and quickly became friends. It was then that I first was introduced to a scientific perspective of psychic ability which was being called remote viewing.

Rob Cowart and I discovered a book, Mind-Reach, Scientists Look at Psychic Ability, by Russell Targ and Harold Puthoff (1977). We both read this book through the eyes of counterintelligence specialists concerned about hostile intelligence collection abilities. We saw the psychic ability to remote view as documented in this book as a possible threat to national security. Tactical and strategic military advantage could be compromised through this process. The perceptual phenomenon or experience of remote viewing was not strange to me, but this nomenclature remote viewing was. I was somewhat startled to find that two scientists had written about something that I had taken for granted all my life.

Rob and I talked about remote viewing for hours and wondered if anybody in our own military intelligence community was interested. I thought back to my early Fort Holabird days when I had hinted at the idea of satellite photography and was told never to discuss such highly classified subjects outside specially designated secure areas. Was this remote viewing the same sort of thing? Rob and I wondered and wondered. On the other hand, how could it be classified if this book by these two scientists was available to the public? We wondered some more. Neither Rob nor I had stumbled across anything like this in our work as special agents.

Life at Fort Huachuca was great. I attended graduate school in the evenings and studied Counseling Psychology, a master’s degree program offered by the extension campus of the University of Northern Colorado. The course of my life slowly emerged from the foggy future with each day that passed. I was once again being taken care of.

At First Lieutenant Ray’s continued insistence, I finally put in my application to go to OCS. Lieutenant Colonel Webb, a senior officer at the school, informed me of my acceptance to the program. Webb and I had met several times. He came into my classes several times, as he did with all instructors to monitor their performance. I had also visited with him at several office and school social occasions.

When I reported to Lieutenant Colonel Webb in his office, we exchanged salutes and he invited me to sit down. He told me that my application to attend OCS had been approved by “the brass” and he wanted to talk to me personally before I left Fort Huachuca for OSC at Fort Benning, Georgia. He told me that his last job had been in the Pentagon in the assignments branch for intelligence personnel.

Webb said that he had been watching me and admired my professionalism during my assignment to the Army Intelligence School. Finally he said, Sergeant Atwater, keep your nose clean at Officer Candidate School and if you’re commissioned as an intelligence officer, I will see to it that you get whatever assignment you want. And with that he dismissed me.

This is what is known in the military as grandfathering. It was important to get a senior officer to look after you and your assignments, to help you to be in the right place at the right time— maximizing your career potential. Lieutenant Colonel Webb had just adopted me.

For me, OCS was a snap and I graduated tenth in a class of over two hundred. Only two candidates received commissions into the Intelligence Corps. I was one of them, and I was on my way to the Officer Basic Course at Fort Huachuca with assignment orders in hand to eventually report to Fort Bliss, Texas. More importantly, I was on my way back to Lieutenant Colonel Webb, an angel from Guidance, who had promised me my assignment of choice.

Having me attend the Officer Basic Course at Fort Huachuca was ridiculous. I could have taught nearly all the classes. But when I reported to Lieutenant Colonel Webb with a smile on my face, I was once again being taken care of, as my mother had said so long ago.

Well, Lieutenant Atwater, he said, with emphasis on the Lieutenant. Where do you want to go? Handing him the book Mind-Reach, I said, Sir, I don’t know exactly, but I do know that what is scientifically presented in this book represents a threat to our national security and I would like to be assigned someplace where I can do something about that.

Let me look at this book tonight. Check with my secretary and get an appointment with me tomorrow.

Yes, Sir. We exchanged salutes and I left his office.

The next afternoon as I entered his office, he rose from behind his desk before I could report to him in the prescribed military manner. He handed me the book and said, I’ve never heard of anything like this remote viewing stuff. But if what these scientists say is true, then you are exactly right. This is a threat to our national security.

Yes, Sir, I replied.

If anything like this is going on, it will be documented in the Pentagon. I’m going to have you assigned to the Pentagon Counterintelligence Force. As a lieutenant, you will be a team chief and will have access to all areas of the Pentagon. No door will be locked to you. You will have the highest security clearances. It will be up to you to find this project, if it exists.

Thank you, Sir, I said. He walked me to his office door and we parted without exchanging salutes. I wish we had saluted. I think this may have been the last time I saw him. I heard some time later that he took ill and died. Anyway, a few days later, I received a change of orders. My Fort Bliss assignment was canceled, and I was to report to the Pentagon upon graduation from the Officer’s Basic Course at Fort Huachuca.

I talked about the assignment to the Pentagon with my family. On the surface, an assignment to Washington, D.C., seemed better than Fort Bliss, Texas. But we had lived in the D.C. area when we went to language school. The cost of living was very high and there was no military housing. As a young lieutenant with three children, I was going to have trouble making ends meet.

We talked about looking for a place to live in Manassas, Virginia, several miles west of Washington, D.C., where the cost of housing was more reasonable. I would have long commutes every day but at least we might be able to afford living there. But . . . on the very day we were to leave for Washington, serendipity, divine Guidance, or whatever, intervened. I was to be taken care of once again.

A Change of Assignment

As we were packing our VW bus and pop-up trailer for the trip from Arizona to Washington, D.C., I got a phone message telling me to call the 902nd Military Intelligence Group of the newly formed U.S. Army Intelligence and Security Command (INSCOM) at Fort Meade, Maryland, about my assignment. I left my wife with the kids and the packing job and went back on post (Fort Huachuca) to call Fort Meade.

INSCOM informed me that my assignment orders had been changed again (not through Lieutenant Colonel Webb’s influence) and that I was now to report to Fort Meade for duty to the Systems Exploitation Detachment (SED). They were in need of experienced intelligence officers, and when the personnel officer at headquarters of INSCOM reviewed my personnel file she felt I, as an experienced counterintelligence special agent, would be better suited to an assignment with SED at Fort Meade than the Pentagon Counterintelligence Force in Washington, D.C. I was assured that there would be written orders waiting for me when I arrived. I acknowledged the verbal change in my orders and told them that I would report as soon as I could move my family across the country. When I hung up the phone, my mind began to race. Fort Meade would be great. We would have family housing. No longer were we facing financial ruin. I couldn’t wait to tell my wife and the kids the good news.

CompassSkip imageAs we drove across country, camping every night at a KOA with our pop-up, we talked about our new life, schools for the kids, on-post housing, family medical care at a military hospital, and the post exchange and commissary, all of which were military benefits we would have missed if we had had to live in Manassas. We also had friends who we knew from previous assignments and who were now assigned to Fort Meade.

Overcome with gratitude, I forgot about my assignment request to Lieutenant Colonel Webb and my desire to find out about any remote-viewing projects documented in the secret corridors of the Pentagon. We were on our way to a new life. But I was on course, as I always had been all along even though I didn't consciously realize it. In the very near future, I was going to be able to personally experience the reality of remote viewing beyond the implications of a counterintelligence threat in a ways I would have never guessed. Later, I would come to understand the true spiritual implications of remote viewing. Guidance had been my true compass on this voyage across the sea of life.